


Crowning Glory

by Anoke



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (a little bit), Caretaking, Foltest being a creep but subtly, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Haircuts, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Subspace, only really light in the sense that they don't give it a name, ostensibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28614474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anoke/pseuds/Anoke
Summary: Roche comes to Foltest with a request. Foltest is happy to help out.
Relationships: Foltest/Vernon Roche
Comments: 22
Kudos: 42





	Crowning Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow I have gone _even more niche._  
>  I blame Laurelnose for encouraging me. (I did not need much encouragement.)

Foltest was just finishing the last few bits of the day's usual deluge of paperwork alone in his chambers when he heard a knock at the inner door. Whoever was bothering him had best be here to alert him of an unexpected onset of war, at the very least—he had forcibly dismissed all of the guards and servants an hour previous and was currently clothed only in a soft dressing gown over his nightclothes. After cursing under his breath—but only just—Foltest called “Enter!” loudly enough to be heard through the door, and turned back to look at his papers.

After several moments without any sound apart from the door opening and closing again, Foltest looked up, ready to snap at whoever had disturbed him. However, the sight of Vernon Roche standing hesitantly just inside the doorway left his remark dead in his mouth. Roche _never_ knocked. It was refreshingly bold of him, in fact.

Foltest relaxed his shoulders. “Roche, what brings you to my chambers this evening? And so casually dressed?” 

His commander was in shirtsleeves and breeches and the nearly-everpresent chaperon, arm in a sling across his chest. The man had had his right arm broken in a scrap with a number of Scoia'tel a month or so back, and despite Roche's best efforts his arm was still set in splints. 

Roche rubbed his hand against his face.

“Sire, I—” he paused and shifted slightly. “There was something— I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”

Foltest leaned back against his desk. “Of course. It depends on what it is, but I’m not likely to have you executed at this point,” he said with a bit of a chuckle.

Roche shifted slightly, looking even more uncomfortable. "I— this was just— I'll go."

"Roche," Foltest said sternly. "What would you ask of me."

The tone pulled his commander up at least. He visibly took a deep breath.

"It's gotten too long and I can't cut it myself like this and I generally don't like people cutting it for me," Roche said in one rushed sentence, and reached up and pulled off his chaperon.

It took a monumental amount of effort for Foltest to not to laugh out loud at the expression on Roche's face, newly framed at his cheeks by soft curling locks of deep brown hair. It _was_ longer than usual. And he'd come to Foltest for this—so really, how could he say no?

"I can't say I've ever cut a man's hair before," Foltest said slowly, stroking his chin so he could hide a smile behind his hand.

"You really don't have to cut it," Roche said. "Just shaving it all off would be fine."

"But you don't like having your head completely shaved," Foltest said.

"It's not my favorite, but I couldn't ask you to spend so much of your time on me, sire. It's going to be under the chaperon anyway," Roche said, resigned. 

"Nonsense," Foltest said. "If I truly bungle it I'll shave it, but if it's going to be under the chaperon anyway there's no reason not to try and cut it correctly."

“Sire—” Roche started.

“Really. I insist,” Foltest said, gentle but stern.

Foltest was not above admitting to himself a certain amount of personal interest in keeping Roche from shaving his head. Despite how quickly the other man's hair grew, if he cut it _all_ off it would be at least another couple of months before it was long enough to twirl around a finger or get a good grip in. Cutting his commander’s hair would be good for both of them—and Foltest never flinched from unusual tasks. 

“Well, soonest begun is soonest done,” Foltest said. “How shall we do this?”

“If you have a low chair or a stool,” Roche said, then looked around the rooms. “Ah. This should serve.”

Foltest kept his eye on Roche as he carefully set the chaperon down next to Foltest’s paperwork and collected a low stool—more of a footrest, in fact—from under the desk. It was truly amazing how young the boyish curls made Roche look. He could almost be a lad in his twenties, fresh-faced and eager to please. 

_Well. Roche hasn't been **fresh-faced** in some years, anyway, _Folest mentally corrected.

Roche set the footrest down on bare stone and pulled out a small set of scissors from somewhere. “I can, ah, provide some tips.”

“Reasonable enough,” Foltest said, taking the shears and checking the edges. Razor-sharp, of course. “I take it we’re doing this on bare floor to make it simpler to clean up after?”

“Yes,” Roche said, cautiously sitting down.

Foltest gave him a look. “Surely you can’t mean to keep your shirt on.”

“Sire?” Roche said, looking slightly alarmed.

“You’ll get hair all down it,” Foltest said. “Can’t imagine that being at all comfortable.”

“I,” Roche said, clearly at a bit of a loss.

“I’ll help you with the sleeve,” Foltest said, tucking the scissors into a pocket and reaching for the ties on Roche’s shirt. His commander let him undo the ties and take his injured arm out of the sling so he could carefully pull it out of the sleeve. Roche tried to pull the rest of the shirt over his head, but Foltest caught his wrist and pulled the garment off himself, placing Roche’s right arm back into the sling when he was done. He tossed the shirt in the direction of his desk, noting that it landed half-on the chair. Good enough.

“Now,” Foltest said, “Walk me through this.”

“Yes, sire,” Roche said. “First it’s best to get everything untangled,” and started to reach for his head. Foltest caught his hand again.

“Let me.”

Foltest ran his free hand through the mess of curls, tugging a little as strands caught, and watched a tiny shiver run up Roche’s spine. His commander’s hand dropped to his lap. Foltest continued finger-combing, adding his second hand as well. It took a little while to untangle everything—the hat was not conducive to an orderly mane, clearly—but eventually Foltest found the dark curls parting smoothly for his fingers.

“A shame, really,” he said aloud.

“Sire?” Roche said, sounding a little woozy.

“I enjoy seeing you with longer hair,” Foltest said, punctuating the statement by tugging on a lock. Roche inhaled, soft but sharp, at the pull, and Foltest had to brush his thumb over the soft spot behind his commander’s ear before letting go.

“I suppose,” Roche murmured.

Foltest smiled in satisfaction. “Now, how does this go?”

Roche kept his hand in his lap, which Foltest approved of. “It’s— best to go in small sections. Bottom to top, and around like a sundial. You take one or two and pull them taut—”

He cut off for a moment, with another little shiver, as Foltest slid a hand up at the base of his skull and pulled two curls until the hair went straight.

“You can keep the strands— between your fingers,” Roche continued after a moment. “And trim the part past the ends. And when you take the next strand, keep one of the cut ones—”

“To keep it even,” Foltest said.

“Mm,” Roche managed before subsiding at Foltest adjusting his grip.

Foltest surveyed the strands he was holding carefully. He could easily see how much hair was loose beyond his fingers, which was a good measure of how much he was cutting.

 _One half-curl to start, I think,_ Foltest thought, and carefully adjusted his grip. The scissors closed with a _snick_ and a lock of hair dropped, bouncing off of Roche’s shoulder and falling to the floor.

It took a bit to figure out how to collect the next strand into his grasp, but eventually Foltest managed. Another _snick_ , another curl dropping. He made his cautious way across Roche’s head, shorn locks slowly accumulating in a half-circle around Roche’s back, one or two clinging to his shoulders. His commander was silent, willingly tilting his head whichever direction Foltest chose to move it.

After Foltest had gone over Roche’s head once, he gently ruffled his commander’s hair, seeing how long it was. Dark curls dripped over his temples and down the back of his neck, just outside the usual boundaries of his chaperon.

“Once more,” Foltest said, letting his hand rest on the back of Roche’s neck. His commander didn’t make a sound.

The second round went quicker, now that Foltest had a better idea of what he was doing. The shears wound up resting gently against his commander’s neck, or sliding across it, as Foltest got them into position for cuts, which caused some fascinating little shivers from Roche. Foltest painstakingly eyed the ends as he worked—he wasn’t about to give Roche an excuse to shave everything after the trouble he was going through.

 _Overall, not bad for a first try,_ Foltest thought as he ran a hand though after the second trim. Not high and tight like he’d seen on Roche before, but short enough that errant curls wouldn’t escape out the edges of the chaperon, and, significantly, long enough for Foltest’s own taste.

“I’d call that a success,” Foltest said.

Roche shivered as Foltest brushed hair off of his shoulders, head twitching slightly with it. Foltest couldn’t help watching an errant curl bounce free of the freshly-cropped locks, feeling a small rush of satisfaction.

“You must be cold,” Foltest said when another little shudder ran through Roche. “Your shirt won’t do much for that.”

“Mm,” Roche said, still looking dazedly into the distance.

Foltest shrugged his dressing gown off his shoulders and wrapped it around his commander, carefully feeding his arms through the sleeves and re-hanging the splinted one in its sling.

“Let’s get you off the stone,” he said, and helped Roche up and over to the silk rug set out of reach of errant sparks from the fire.

Gratifyingly, rather than even glance at one of the chairs, his commander sank to his knees onto the soft pile of the rug. Foltest gave him a long look. Roche had a skinnier frame than he did, and was almost swimming in the plush, deep blue velvet of the dressing gown. Part of the neck was loose, showing a tantalizing slice of collarbone, and Roche’s skin was slowly starting to flush, from the warmth or from something else. His dark eyes were huge, and he was breathing through his mouth as he stared uncomprehendingly into the fire.

 _The hair can be cleaned up later,_ Foltest thought. _Right now—_

He reached out and ran his hand through Roche’s newly-trimmed locks, watching dark curls catch and part around his fingers, glinting reddish in the firelight, like caput mortuum on a painting of a kneeling saint. It was quite the compelling image. Really, there was only one thing it was missing.

On his next stroke though Roche’s curls, he closed his hand, watching ringlets try to jump out of the gaps in his fist. He pulled, and Roche’s eyes slid closed with a moan.

**Author's Note:**

> [Caput mortuum, by the way.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caput_mortuum_\(pigment\))


End file.
